Sight
by Jules7
Summary: Ron takes in the scenery... Ron/Hermione


TITLE: Sight  
  
AUTHOR: Jules  
  
RATING: R for sexual imagery  
  
DISCLAIMER: Not mine—don't sue.  
  
A/N: Fourth in the "Senses" series. Keep in mind that in their sixth year, Ron and Hermione would be sixteen years old.  
  
A/N 2: Yes, I do reference my own story here. Ron's thoughts on Hermione's appearance do in part come from my story "The Mirror's Truth". You don't have to have read that one to get this one—just know that once upon a time, Ron had to convince Hermione that she was beautiful, especially in his eyes.  
  
  
  
SUMMARY: Ron takes in the scenery…  
  
  
  
She's gorgeous.  
  
I think I've always thought that, even when I wasn't sure I even liked her. In the beginning, we couldn't stand each other, but I respected her intelligence and her morals, even if I teased her about them.  
  
I also respected the fact that she was beautiful.  
  
At eleven, it wasn't as obvious. She was pretty, with wild, bushy brown hair and these huge, shiny brown eyes. Over the years, she morphed into attractive, then lovely, and finally, the stunning knockout I know her as now. Her hair went from bushy to thick and wavy to wildly curly and spilling over her shoulders, and her eyes transformed from shiny to sparkling and then to glowing and brilliant.  
  
Of course, none of these things actually changed, but my view of them did.  
  
Once, when we were in school, some girls made some comments about our relationship, wondering what I saw in her, since she wasn't pretty. Unfortunately, she actually believed them, and I had to reassure her of her beauty. She'll never see herself as the beauty I see her as. Never will she truly appreciate the depth of her eyes, the silk of her hair, the way her skin glows in the sun, the sexy sway of her hips, the high, sweet curve of her breast…  
  
She has a body to die for. She is, in a word, delectable.  
  
And I'm not the only man to notice. We can't walk down the street without some guy doing a double take at the sight of her. She claims not to notice, but I surely do. I get all possessive (in my head, at least) and hex the bastard (again, in my head—she'd KILL me for acting on my murderous thoughts). It's always comforting when she takes my hand and squeezes it, letting me know that my jealousy is unfounded and that she is only mine.  
  
That knowledge is nice. It's even nicer because there are so many facets to Hermione that I never have to share with anyone. For instance, she is so adorable when she's cooking—she always manages to make a mess, all over the kitchen and all over herself. For my last birthday, she tried (that's the key, there) to bake me a cake. More flour ended up on her than in the cake! Cooking was never one of 'Mione's strong points. Still, she was so cute with flour in her hair and on her nose and all over her apron. And when she's out in the yard, pulling weeds or something, and she has her hair in a ponytail and her sunglasses on…oh, yeah.  
  
And of course, she's breathtaking when we make love. All that pretty, smooth skin naked and draped in moonlight and shadow--it's best when it's late at night, when the moon's shine pours in the window and lights her as she moves, all sinew and sweet passion in the bed with me. Hips rolling, hands caressing, lips kissing…and then of course, when her body shakes and quivers in pleasure, in completion.  
  
She's just beautiful.  
  
I used to obsess over her beauty. Not in that scary stalker way, but…when we were in the same room, I couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was the prettiest form of scenery. I'd follow her with my gaze, watching her face and her body. I noticed everything about her—all her mannerisms and little quirks. She bit her bottom lip when she's nervous. She wrinkled her forehead when she was concentrating. When she was reading, she'd idly play with strands of her hair, twining the same curl around her fingers over and over. She always sat with her legs straight or with them crossed.  
  
I liked it when she sat with her legs crossed. You see, there was this stretch of skin that was always visible between Hermione's skirt hem and the top of her knee socks. When she crossed her legs, that expanse of skin got…bigger. More pretty Hermione skin. All of a sudden, I was a bumbling, blushing idiot. Coherent sentences? Forget it—I was barely able to tell you my own name.  
  
And she said she never knew how I felt about her. Please.  
  
It was that little peek of skin that finally did me in one warm spring afternoon our sixth year. Harry, the temptress and I were outside enjoying the end of exams and the knowledge that we were going to win the House Cup again. Lying on a thick blanket under a tree by the lake, we chatted about everything and nothing—rehashed the year's best moments, made plans to spend the summer together, and dreamed about how great our final year at Hogwarts would be. As the conversation waned into comfortable silence, I found myself growing drowsy. Harry was slouched against the tree trunk, sound asleep. Hermione was sprawled on her back next to me, her head pillowed on her arms, aimlessly daydreaming. Desperately attempting to avoid the enticement of her full, rose colored lips, I lay on my stomach with my face aimed at her feet.  
  
Of course, I forgot to take into account our height difference—I was nearly a foot taller than she was. When I'd settled, I realized my fatal error. I was now face to face with the traitorous bit of skin. It was too late to move, too late to adjust. I'd been trapped in the allure of the bare patch of skin winking at me in the golden afternoon sunlight. Fascinated, I edged closer, studying the way her skin crinkled at the joint of her knee, the light flush her pale skin had taken on in the sun, and the smoothness of her, so different from my own hairiness. It was then that I noticed them. Three tiny brown freckles, forming a perfect line over the arch of Hermione's knee. Deep inside myself, my delicate self-control shattered, and without cognizant thought to what I was doing and unable to stop myself, I leaned in close and brushed my lips over the line of freckles. I felt her twitch beneath my mouth and heard her sharp gasp of shock. I rested my forehead on Hermione's knee, knowing I had just sealed my fate and had certainly incurred Hermione's wrath. With my heart racing and my blood roaring in my ears, I waited for her to speak.  
  
"Ron, if you wanted to kiss me, why didn't you at least kiss my lips so that I could kiss you back?"  
  
I lifted my head and met her amused gaze. She was smiling, and suddenly it all fell into place. I accidentally startled Harry awake when I bolted upright and fell beside her, answering her question with another kiss, which she returned quite ardently. Later, of course, we discussed our newfound situation and I confessed everything to her. She admitted to sharing my passionate feelings, and we exchanged more kisses and whispered words of love.  
  
Later that glorious summer, I found out that those weren't Hermione's only freckles. They dust her lower back, across the hollow of her spine, like bits of burnished gold. One dots the crease in her left anklebone. There is another directly beneath her right earlobe—I've become rather intimate with that one. A sweep of miniscule specks adorns the valley between her breasts, trailing down her belly to the juncture of her thighs.  
  
I teasingly told her once that they pointed the way to hidden treasure. She snorted with laughter, but soon after, I showed her how right I was.  
  
She never laughed about THAT again.  
  
Hermione admitted to me just recently that that summer changed her view of herself completely. My attraction to her and my desire for her made her feel pretty. Before, she'd always seen herself as a load of hair with big teeth and a bigger brain. After we got together, though, she said she felt less like an awkward girl and more like a woman. And God, what a woman she was.  
  
She also said it didn't hurt that I worshipped her like a goddess. I still do. To me, she's still as lovely as she was that incredible spring afternoon, and I fall more in love with her every day. My love for her never really stemmed from her looks, though—it all came from her warmth, her compassion, her brilliance, her sense of humor, her goodness, her amazing capacity to love. None of that has changed. She can still reduce me to a fumbling fool and she still makes me blush more and better than anyone I know. I like that, though. I love that, after being together so long, she can still get to me.  
  
She steals my heart and claims my soul.  
  
Love. Love seems such a paltry word for what I feel for her. She's my lover, my best friend, my inspiration, my devotion, my desire…  
  
My everything. My life. My humanity.  
  
I still watch her, make her my scenery, cataloguing her motions and idiosyncrasies. She still bites her bottom lip when she's nervous. She still wrinkles her forehead when she was concentrating. She still toys with her hair, twining the same curl around her fingers over and over again. And every once in a while, she looks up and meets my eyes with a smile. And if I'm very, very lucky, she'll come to my side, take my hand, and lead me to the bedroom, inviting me to take once again the tour of her freckles, just as I did that summer long ago. 


End file.
